


Once Upon a Time in Italia

by kenwayallgetalong



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Post-AC Rogue, Shay wandering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 08:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15020735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenwayallgetalong/pseuds/kenwayallgetalong
Summary: Shay Patrick Cormac follows his own creed. When he is lost, he searches for an old friend to help make sense of it all.





	Once Upon a Time in Italia

**Author's Note:**

> This was directly inspired by the amazing sunsetagain, and their work on deviantart. Check out their work that inspired this fic, and their other stuff as well.
> 
> https://sunsetagain.deviantart.com/art/Once-Upon-A-Time-In-Italia-541415233

** Florence, 1785 **

Fabio darted through the narrow Florence streets, clutching a bundle of books under his arm. He’d managed to find an old set, thought to be lost to time, which his master had been searching for for almost a year.

He found the door beside the bakery, and let himself in, climbing the narrow stairs twice at a time. His master bent over the desk, scribbling something down, looking up as he came in.

_“Ah, Fabio.”_ He smiled broadly, the scar splitting his face doing little to hide his genuine smile as he took off his spectacles. His Italian was almost fluent, only just betraying a hint of his true accent-England, or somewhere similar, or so Fabio’s mother said. Fabio grinned and hefted the books onto his desk.

_“Managed to find an old set in the basement.”_ His master’s eyes widened as he took in the worn leather cover, tracing it idly with his fingers. _“Excellent work.”_ He grinned, looking back up at Fabio, before reaching inside his desk and pulling out a small but heavy purse. _“Here.”_ He said, handing it over. _“I’ve been searching for these for a while.”_ He sat back down behind the desk and pulled the stack towards him. _“Go home early today. You’ve earned it.”_

Fabio beamed. _“Grazie, signore.”_ He smiled, bouncing on the balls of his feet before darting back out again. He paused in the doorway for a moment, his curiosity burning. _“Master?”_ he asked, his hand resting on the frame. His master looked up. _“What are the books for?”_ He chuckled, and turned a page, the dry paper rustling. Fabio had seen the cover, the stylised A on the front. _“I’m looking for an old friend.”_ He finally answered. He gestured for him to go. _“Go. Enjoy the day. See you tomorrow.”_ Fabio grinned back and left, whistling as he hefted his purse. The day had barely begun and he was already free. 

-

Shay smiled as he read, Fabio’s whistle echoing up from the streets. He pulled out his journal, and, noting down the day, crossed the items off the list he’d compiled. He’d been scouring Florence for over a year to find these books, and the rest of Italy for longer. Early sixteenth century texts if he wasn’t mistaken. He flicked his spectacles open, and began to read.

-

As his eyesight began to strain to read the words, Shay sat back. It was late, the sun was almost down. He pushed his chair back and stood, stretching out his stiff limbs. He had a destination now, at least.

-

Shay Cormac was used to graveyards.

He’d visited Master Kenway’s grave, once, to pay his respects.

He’d snuck into Davenport Homestead, long after he’d been banished from it, and spoke to Achilles’ grave, overlooking the water, next to Abigail and little Connor (all the while terrified his larger namesake would find him).

He knew where Hope was buried in New York.

He’d never visited it.

Still, he felt strange walking into this particular graveyard in Italy. He found the grave he’d been looking for, and knelt before it, adjusting the sword at his side, as the sun began to descend, stroking the city’s rooftops.

“So,” he began, uncertain of his words. “This is where you were born, and now where you rest at last.” He read the weathered words on the gravestone as he spoke.

_Ezio Auditore da Firenze_

_June 24 th 1459-November 30th 1524_

_Insieme per la vittoria_

_The legendary Mentor himself._ “Forgive my intrusion to your home.” Shay continued. “I’m not your enemy. I’m not a Templar.” He sighed, looking around him. “Not anymore. Not an Assassin either, of course. Now…” he trailed off, unsure of himself. “Now I’m not so sure. I once believed my own creed could work with the tenets of the Templar’s beliefs.”

He thought of General Munro, the man who welcomed him into the order, who spoke of order, and bettering the struggling colonies.

Helping people. 

“But everything changed in France.”

-

** 1777, outskirts of Marseille **

Shay spurred his horse on harder, desperate to reach the port before sundown. His air rifle, holstered on the saddle, jostled against his thigh, as he charged down the narrow path, the box tucked into his coat firm against his chest.

He heard a shot crack out in the cold air, and threw himself to the left, grabbing his rifle as he leapt. He rolled tightly, and put the rifle to his shoulder, sighting a target as his horse shrieked and collapsed.

Nothing.

His eyes carefully tracked the path through the narrow mountains as he waited.

_Click._

He rolled forward, narrowly avoiding the Assassin that had just landed where he was moments prior. They stood slowly, unsheathing their sword with their hidden blade in their left hand.

“Traitor.” They hissed, before swinging. Shay parried easily with the rifle, flicking his own blade into his free hand and slitting their throat, blood splashing across the scarf on his face.

Two more Assassins charged him, from each side. He merely dropped the rifle, and pulled his pistols into his hands, firing once in each direction, holstering the empty pistols before they hit the ground, before kneeling to pick up his rifle.

“You’re good.”

Shay paused, his hand hovering over the discarded rifle. A final Assassin stood between him and his escape, their sword drawn. They drew back their hood, revealing an unkempt, grizzled black beard and long black hair, as Shay slowly rose, hand on his own sword. “I had good teachers.” Shay responded carefully.

“I know.” They spat back. “Before you killed them. I was there.”

Shay realised. “Pierre Bellec. Sorry I missed you.” One of the few Assassins to escape the Colonial Purge he and Master Kenway had instigated.

Bellec merely growled and darted forward, slashing his blade down. Shay narrowly blocked it from above, and danced backwards, hoping to gain some distance. Bellec had been a soldier before he was an Assassin, and was a fierce fighter. He didn’t fancy his chances.

Their blades clanged in the twilight as they parried back and forth on the narrow path. Bellec managed to shove him back and pulled out a flintlock, which Shay narrowly dodged, managing to kick the pistol from his hands and keep pressing.

“You think you’re a saviour?” Bellec snarled as they clashed blades, knocking Shay’s dagger from his left hand, forcing him to adjust his stance, ignoring his words.

He’d been hearing the same things from Assassins for years. Even in Charles Dorian’s last words he threw what he’d done back in his face.

“As I fled the colonies, I saw what your kind could do!” the fierce man roared. “I saw Templars put entire villages to the sword for the chance of killing one Assassin!” Trapping their blades together, Bellec ripped the sword from Shay’s hands and kicked him on his back, sprawled in the dirt. Tossing Shay’s sword aside, he stood over him, a demon in the fading light.

“Tell me what you did.” He said, breathing heavily, the blade resting against Shay’s chest. Shay looked back at him. And all the lies he’d been feeding himself for years came crashing back to him. Everything since Lisbon. Since the Arctic. Chevalier’s dying words, sneered in his face.

" _So, cabbage farmer, are you convinced the Templars are right?”_

And his retort, his youthful, angry retort.

_“Convinced to the end.”_

“Tell me!” Bellec screamed, raising the sword. Shay flicked a smoke bomb into his hand and crushed it, rolling away from the blade as it came down.

Bellec coughed heavily, his eyes misting, both hands ready to deflect a strike, but none came. Eventually, the smoke cleared, and Bellec was left alone on the path, but for three dead Assassins, and a discarded air rifle. He walked over to it, where a scrap of cloth lay next to it. A bloody black scarf, with a red Templar cross on it. Cormac’s mask. Bellec looked around at the empty landscape, and spat. “Coward!” he roared, before sheathing his blade and storming off.

-

Shay sat in the tiny crag in the rocks he’d found scaling the mountain to escape Bellec, and peeled off his coat, hissing as it stuck to his wound. Bellec had scored a long scratch across his arm, oozing blood, althought it wasn’t too deep. Engaging his blades, Shay began to cut up his coat for bandages, as his mind wandered.

_Entire villages._

He’d joined the Templars because the Assassins had caused the collapse of two cities, but what good was that when they sowed as much destruction as their counterparts?

He was no fool.

He knew Master Kenway had kept him close to stop him from straying. He’d been made Master Templar after the Arctic, but never ascended to Grand Master, despite Gist’s urges. He wasn’t a leader, he was a warrior. He couldn’t indoctrinate others but could damn well protect them so they could make a choice.

And he knew of America. He’d stayed far away from that mess, crisscrossing the globe to track down the damned box, which now rested at his feet as he bandaged up his wound. While they’d tried to settle things as peacefully as they could, it was all stirring up again, with Achilles limping out of retirement, a new protégé by his side.

Johnson, Pitcairn, Hickey, and Biddle had all fallen to his blade already.

Charles’ death and the damned box would hardly make a difference.

Shay tied off the bandages and experimentally touched them. They’d hold. He pulled his shirt back on over it, tucking the box into his belt before he cautiously peered out of the crag. Night had fallen, which he was fine with. He tucked himself back in and tried to lie comfortably.

He dreamt of whispered promises, Liam’s laugh, and the screams he heard every time he closed his eyes.

-

Shay limped into Marseille the following morning, Bellec’s wound stinging beneath his shirt. He needed a new set of clothes, some weapons, and some food.

A bath wouldn’t be amiss either.

Shay checked his purse, then grimaced. He’d lost it in the scuffle with Bellec, and he hardly wanted to risk alerting anyone to his presence by stealing something. He saw a pawn shop up the road, and limped in.

The owner cast a disapproving eye over Shay’s appearance, and raised an eyebrow. Shay suppressed a sigh. He didn’t mind France, in fact he quite liked it, but the people were something else.

_“Bonjour.”_ Shay began, careful to keep his hands away from his pistols. The owner chuckled and folded his arms. “English?” he asked, his accent and sneer unmistakeable. Shay sighed in relief. His French was passable, but not enough to negotiate a sale. “What do you have?” he asked, looking Shay up and down. He was hardy the picture of wealth.

With a pang in his heart, Shay reached to his finger, and pulled off the Templar ring he’d been given all those years ago. The red cross stared back at him, accusing. And just as he’d thought before, on the other side of this war, stealing the manuscript. _There’s no going back now_. With a hard swallow, he pushed the ring across the counter to the man.

** 1785, Florence ** ****

“After that,” Shay admitted. “I wandered. Went back to Lisbon. Lived in Germany for a while. Then I came here.” He sat back and looked around the graveyard, rows upon rows of neat gravestones.

“I wonder who kept it from me.” _Gist? Weeks? Master Kenway himself?_ “It doesn’t matter.” _So many dead._ “The ordinary people always suffer in our endless war.”

He looked back at the gravestone before him. “So I almost hate you, Mentor Auditore.” And the screams came back to him.

“Like I hate myself.”

He’d read up on the Mentor’s exploits and journey, from the angry young Florentine, to the old grape farmer. “Leading a riot of defenceless citizens in Istanbul against the Janissaries, just for a chance to slip inside?” he asked, his anger rising.

“Lighting the gunpowder in Cappadocia to allow the smoke and the flames to take so many lives?” He chuckled bitterly. “’Everything is permitted’.” He spat sarcastically. “I almost hate you, almost. But I know far more than that.”

He’d read of Rome, of the Borgias’ oppressive control. “You were badly wounded, but you covered for the defenceless citizens of the villa as they escaped.” He’d visited Monteriggioni, wandered through the ancient halls, long abandoned by the Auditore family.

“You assassinated the brutal Templars, liberating Rome from misery, step by step.” He thought back to the writings of the people of Rome, and of the smiling man in the white hood who showed them the possibility of a new life, and a new world.

Shay leant back on his hands and looked up. Night had long fallen. “So…” he began slowly. “I’m in awe of you, Mentor Auditore.” He admitted.

He reached into his coat, and felt the bulge there. He withdrew the Precursor box, holding it out to his grave. “It’s time to return what you’ve dedicated.” He began to scrape back the caked dry earth over the coffin he knew lay below, and thought of the Mentor’s writings he’d found.

Something that finally made sense of the creed he’d never truly understood.

_“To say that nothing is true, is to realise that the foundations of our civilisation are fragile, and that we must be the shepherds of our own civilisation. To say that everything is permitted, is to understand that we are the architects of our actions, and must live with the consequences, whether glorious or tragic.”_

Shay carefully placed the box atop the grave, and swept the dirt back over it, leaving him at rest once more. He heard a raven cry overhead, and smiled sadly as he stood. “Thank you for giving me direction when I lost my way.” He said, bowing his head to the grave, noticing the date of birth.

He checked his journal, and chuckled.

“Happy birthday, Mentor Auditore.”

He turned, and slowly left, the wind howling behind him, and for a moment, he could have sworn he heard a question on the wind.

A single word.

_Now?_

“Now…” he sighed. “Now I’m going to follow the path of a shepherd.” He looked back over his shoulder at the grave.

“Requiescat in pace mentor.”

**Author's Note:**

> This has always been my headcanon for Shay's life. I feel like he wouldn't stay with the Templars forever, for a number of reasons, but mainly because he seems far too moral, and joined them more out of necessity and his desire for revenge than genuine belief in their tenets.


End file.
